Page 3 of A Knight’s Vengeance

A thrill rippled through her. Freedom, at last.

The merchant who stocked the nicest thread was just past⁠—

“Milady.” A man’s voice carried over the honk, honk of geese flapping to get out of her way.

Had her guards seen her?

Ignoring the shouts and clop of hooves behind her, she sidestepped a puddle and quickened her steps.

“Milady, look out!”

Elizabeth whirled around. A wagon laden with wooden casks rumbled straight for her.

The driver yelled for her to get out of the way. He jerked hard on the horse’s reins. The wild-eyed beast tossed its head, snorted, and refused to obey its master’s command.

Elizabeth lunged to the side, expecting to feel the stinging weight of the animal’s hooves. A muscled arm snaked around her waist. She shrieked an instant before she was yanked to safety. The cart hurtled past.

Elizabeth coughed. Waving her hands, she tried to disperse the dust that burned her eyes and clung to her cloak, hair, and skin. Her legs wobbled. She prayed the stranger who had saved her would not release his hold, or she would topple face first on the ground. She closed her eyes against a wave of dizziness.

“You fool. Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

Her coughing subsided. She recognized the deep, rich voice that had called out moments ago. Fool? Who would dare to chastise her so? She, the daughter of Lord Arthur Brackendale.

Equally annoying, she had sagged into the stranger’s arms like a swooning maiden. Her cheek pressed against his warm chest.

Elizabeth took a steadying breath, calmed by the rhythmic thud beneath her ear, the pulse of life. This man did not deserve her anger, but her gratitude. He had risked himself great harm to save her from a painful death.

“Kind sir, I owe you my thanks,” she said.

His arms, curved around her waist, relaxed. He must have sensed her strength returning. “A moment more, and you would have been crushed beneath the wagon’s wheels,” he said. “A pity, indeed, if such a fair damsel were broken like a child’s toy.”

His breath stirred the hair at her forehead. Goosebumps shot down her arms. She did not like the sensation, or the trace of humor warming his voice.

“I did not see the wagon,” Elizabeth said.

“Nor did you heed my warning.”

He spoke in the same tone as her father when he told her of her betrothal, but her sire had gentled his words by insisting the arrangement was for her safety, to ensure she and Wode never fell into de Lanceau’s clutches. She scowled. Her whole life it seemed of late was governed by this rogue de Lanceau.

She tipped up her chin. Her savior was a tall man. Shoulder muscles stretched his gray wool tunic. She steeled herself against his enticing, musky scent. “You are bold to speak to me in such a manner.”

“Not half as bold, milady, as you appear to be.”

Elizabeth groaned, for he spoke true. Her hands curled into his tunic. The ribbon poked between her fingers.

“Or half so bold again,” he continued with a velvety drawl, “as if I had stolen a kiss from your sweet lips.”

Her breath caught in her throat, trapped like a robin in a hawk’s talons. She wrenched free of his hold. The ribbon slipped from her grasp and drifted toward the ground.

“You would not dare kiss me.”

The stranger chuckled, and Elizabeth glared up at him. Her gaze locked with eyes the color of cold steel. Magnificent, captivating eyes, framed by dark lashes. His gaze glinted with amusement. And challenge.

Unease shot through Elizabeth. Where were her guards?

The stranger’s stare did not waver. His eyebrows arched with unquestionable arrogance, and her heart beat like a frantic bird’s wings. Why did he not lower his gaze and show her due respect? He must realize her position. Her sky blue gown was tailored to the latest court fashion and sewn from the finest English wool, unlike his plain, homespun gray tunic and hose.

“You are a fool to challenge me,” she said, hoping to hear the loud roar that signaled the end of the jugglers’ act.